


But We've Never Been the Fortunate Ones

by noondaize



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Bittersweet, Boys In Love, Choi San-centric, Coming of Age, Crying, Eventual Smut, Everyone Has Issues, Everyone Needs A Hug, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Growing Up, Healing, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mentions of other ships, On the Run, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Jung Wooyoung, Runaway Choi San, Runaway Jung Wooyoung, Running Away, Sad with a Happy Ending, Slow Burn, Some Humor, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Street Rats, Teamwork, Teenage Drama, Traveling, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, but not really?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:21:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29391141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noondaize/pseuds/noondaize
Summary: “I won’t let it get that bad,” Wooyoung grins when he sees him, leaning back and pushing their foreheads together. It startles San, who almost drops his soup cup. “I promised to take care of you, right? You won’t know a single bit of sadness or starvation.”San finds himself grinning back at that, lips upturned with a cat-like smile that mirrors Wooyoung’s own.“You’re really cocky, you know that?”“Yeah,” Wooyoung laughs, “‘Course I do. It’s what people like about me.”“I guess it is,” San mutters into his soup cup. “I guess it really is.”(Teenage runaways San and Wooyoung find themselves a new home on the dingy streets of a careless city.)
Relationships: Choi San/Jung Wooyoung
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	But We've Never Been the Fortunate Ones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY !! LOOK HERE !!
> 
> It's very important that you read the beginning notes on ALL the chapters of this fic! I will be posting any and all CW/TW here so that you know what you're getting into :) This fic handles very serious topics (though I try my best to not make them so morbid and/or bleak) that might be very triggering to some people. If that's not your cup of tea or it just doesn't sit well with you, please please put yourself first and exit the fic <3 It's very important to me that everyone is okay with reading this before they do.
> 
> TW/CW for this chapter (the main characters of this story are minors, so please keep that in mind):  
> \- Brief mention of child abuse  
> \- Underage Drinking  
> \- Mentions of vomiting  
> \- Use of Derogatory Terms  
> \- Kidnapping  
> \- Non-Consensual Drug Use/Drugging  
> \- Vague reference to murder and/or harming someone close to the point of death  
> \- Mental breakdowns/Dissociating Episode
> 
> The majority of these topics aren't necessarily done in an extremely descriptive or violent manner, but they ARE there and they ARE an integral part of the story.
> 
> The experiences/references/feelings of the characters in this fic are loosely based off of my own, but forgive me if you feel some things could be handled/expressed better. I tried my best given how dark this fic is in comparison to anything else I've ever written :)
> 
> Okay, sorry for boring you with the long author's note! Enjoy.
> 
> -n.

San’s always been prone to changes that occur slowly, before they impact him all at once.

It’s like a natural burn of fire, beneath his lungs. It’s a tickle that suddenly is pressing hard, searing the prints of fingertips into his side. A light traipse that becomes a full sprint— that leads the little flame he’d been sparking from his lighter to catch onto everything and spread like it was aiming to consume everything into Hell itself.

Changes have always hit him like that. Where he’s felt he’s had all the time in the world to prepare, and ends up with nothing in the end. Blindsided.

When he and his father argue, it’s usually violent. There’s words thrown and then suddenly objects— chairs, cups, whatever his father gets his hands on. The arguments always start and end the same, with San on the floor feeling repulsive.

He doesn’t hate him, much as he wants to. He could never hate him or the rest of his family that's no longer here. His sister and mother who left him behind. They’re not completely awful people all the way down to their core. Yes, his mom and sister walked out on him willingly and knew they were going to leave him alone with his father, but he understands why. As much as San could take, they couldn’t. They had to walk away.

He wants to hate them for leaving him here like this, but he can’t help but feel it’s for the better. In a way he’s like a peace offering— something his family told his father he could keep so he wouldn’t come looking for them again. And he doesn’t, which is perhaps the only reason San doesn’t hate him. Because when they walked out of his life he didn’t try to reel them back in. 

It leaves San on the ground, curled like he would have been in his mother’s womb; though now he’s a lot less warm and probably covered in more blood. He’s tired, but he knows better than to sleep. If he succumbs to it, there’s always a chance he won’t wake up again.

His father says a lot of things, but none of them are heard or acknowledged. It’s sound on top of sound that’s backed only by a constant high pitched ring in San’s ears. There’s a dull throb to certain parts of his body, but in the end, nothing really feels the way it should. So painful it’s numb.

The ringing doesn’t stop, even when the spasming of his limbs does and the blows to his flesh slow to nothing. The ringing doesn’t stop when he’s on his feet, suddenly bolting for the door with his small bag in tow.

The ringing doesn’t stop when he’s running like there’s a fire nipping at his heels, raggedy shoes kicking across the pavement in a steady thump as he chases the stars.

If anything, the ringing sounds like it’s singing pleas for him to run _farther—_ farther away until the pain is all gone. 

* * *

  
  


He goes to a convenience store, since it’s all he can think of.

He doesn’t have enough money to buy anything besides a small bag of chips and a can of soda— both of which nearly chip out the entirety of the few bills he has on him. San’s never been one to receive allowance, which isn’t necessarily a problem, but right now it definitely _is_.

There’s a chill running up and down his back that’s only worsening with his thin shirt threatening to stick to the tacky skin. The cashier doesn’t say anything as he checks San’s items, but he does start a little when he sees the bruised, busted lip and a cut against his cheek.

San can’t help but morbidly think about what the cashier’s face would look like if he saw all of the bruising beneath his shirt.

San grabs a table after, at the edge of the store by the front entrance. It’s small and bright orange, which contrasts with the somewhat rusty yellow of his squeaking seat that doesn’t stop rumbling beneath him as he moves closer. He starts to munch on his meal mindlessly as he stares out the window.

The entry doors part behind his back, the chill of the air greeting his body and making him shiver closer to the surface of his table. He’s draped over it by now, with his bare arms tucked below his chin as he finishes up the last of his chip-bag and laments over how quickly the snack is gone. He’s still hungry, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.

There’s a boy just a little ways off in his peripheral vision who’s scouring the shelves, though his fingers only linger on a few things before he peaks upwards and lets his hand drop back down again. San can’t help his immediate reaction to _look_ — just to make sure he’s not stealing anything or planning to hold the place at gunpoint— when the boy looks back at him.

They make eye contact and San freezes, seeing his grin.

As if by some weird magnetic pull, the boy traverses the small space left between them to sit in the only free chair on the opposite side of the table. He looks at San like he’s picking certain things apart; like his white tank and his sweaty skin across the smear of blood by his lips gives the entire story away.

Maybe it does, because the boy scoots his chair a little closer. 

“I’m Wooyoung,” the boy grins. “I’ve been on the streets since I was thirteen. What about you?”

“San,” he whispers— his throat is aching, he’s unbearably cold, and his shirt is just a little too loose that all the sweat he’d been seeping was now running in rivulets of Winter rain atop his skin. “I just ran away an hour ago.”

The time settles into his bones when he looks at the convenience store’s dingy clock. It really had been an entire hour. Belatedly, with a sluggish mind that’s only been able to churn useless thoughts, San wonders how _he_ hasn’t found him yet.

_Maybe he truly doesn’t care._

“What’d ya run away from?” Wooyoung asks as he leans in. His bangs rest over his eyes just enough that they’re hard to see, and up close San can smell the world outside on him. Not a dirty smell— but one of fire, and street food, and inevitable asphalt. He smelled like he was carrying takeout beneath his shirt, along with the dirt of a newly paved road. 

Wooyoung’s eyes are too hidden for San to think anything of them; instead offering his smile as the only thing on display. It’s playful and showcasing all of his perfect teeth, which aren’t at all yellow— but they’re encased by chapped lips that have been split thousands of times in little scars. He’s got a beauty mark on them, along with some scattered on his face. There’s one hiding behind the wave of his bangs— somewhere below his left eye.

He’s beautiful, but something about it feels _wrong_.

“Hey,” Wooyoung grins larger, and it frightens San for just a second. A creature without eyes, showing off his teeth and tongue, licking about in a frenzy across his dried out lips. He looks inhuman, and San backs away on instinct in his chair. It makes a squeak against the tile floor as Wooyoung’s smile only drops the slightest bit.

“I can show you a lot of really great things,” Wooyoung says suddenly. “If you stay with me, it’ll be alright.”

“Sounds like you want to kill me,” San snorts without humor. It was enough for him that Wooyoung looks like a shark waiting to devour him whole, but hearing him whisper such inviting words only turns San off further. “Leave me alone.”

Wooyoung doesn’t take too kindly to that, smile dropping entirely. He crooks his head a little to the side and showcases only his left eye, underneath which his most prominent mole resides in a shade of dark chocolate.

“It’s not fun out there alone,” he says seriously. He’s not smiling— not even his eyes are sparkling. He looks dull and lifeless, like a ragdoll. “You don’t have someone taking care of you, you’re gonna get eaten up.”

“I’ll manage,” San tries to grit out as he rises from his seat, lifting his bag over his shoulder. The cold hits him even harder as he moves a little ways beneath the vent expelling fresh air, but he ignores it in favor of watching Wooyoung’s still body gazing at him.

“You won’t,” the other says simply. “You don’t know what it’s like to be out here all alone. It’s not that simple.”

“You don’t look any safer than going at it alone,” San bites back. He’s turning on his heel to exit, only to see the reflection in the door of Wooyoung standing right behind him.

He startles, watching the reflection reach a hand over his shoulder.

Wooyoung pushes the door open.

“Look, all I’m saying is I can protect you a lot more than you can protect yourself, _and_ I can make it fun! I was like you once, and now I’m a lot smarter.”

“I already said I got it!” San yells at him, turning on his heels and nearly tripping over the small step of the curb outside. He makes a sound akin to a yelp, and before he can register it, Wooyoung’s clutching him by his wrists and holding him upwards.

“You think you know everything?” Wooyoung quirks a brow at him. He’s not...mad. Doesn’t look even the slightest bit upset. Maybe empty, maybe amused, but he’s oddly calm.

He breaks into a grin at San and hoists him up all the way, the wind blowing his bangs out of his face and revealing his caramel eyes. 

“You don’t know a thing,” Wooyoung laughs lightly. “I bet you don't even know where you’re gonna stay the night, right?”

San stares down at his feet.

“There’s a couple of safe spots,” Wooyoung whispers. “There’s a bench on First that kids sleep under. There’s a bridge by the tourist river where people are allowed to take naps beneath. There’s a grove of trees at the park nearby, and an ice cream parlor people take residence behind, and—”

“How do you know all that?” San interrupts dumbly.

Wooyoung only smiles some more, beckoning him with a hand to follow his way. He can do nothing but obey as they cross the street, probably already having made a scene to the poor worker inside the convenience store while they were there.

The night’s begun to chill enough that San’s exposed arms catch even more of the cold. He wonders how Wooyoung does it, now looking at him.

He’s got on a black tank with a chain around his neck, black cargo shorts exposing strong legs that lead into tattered sneakers. 

The weirdest part is the black bandages snaking around his palms and covering the entirety of his forearm.

“You didn’t answer me,” San says as he follows him.

“You should know the answer,” Wooyoung says back. He turns around when they’re in front of a warehouse that looks partially abandoned. “I did tell you I ran away when I was thirteen, didn’t I? That was a long time ago.”

San only nods to that, feeling embarrassed for not piecing two and two together. Wooyoung was clearly considerably older than thirteen. If he's been this way for a long time, there’s no saying he wouldn’t have learned anything from it.

It puts into perspective the fact that San knows nothing at all.

“I’m telling you this not just as a friend,” Wooyoung smirks, “but as a pro. Survival is a skill, and it takes time to master. Out here though, nobody is really keen on giving anyone any time.”

He points to the locks on the warehouse’s front door, which up close has a _‘condemned’_ sign plastered to it. He tugs at them lightly, but they don’t budge save for an obnoxious rattle.

“We’ll sleep here tonight,” Wooyoung says resolutely. “And in the morning, we’ll go look for food.”

San purses his lips at that, staring at the chains. “We can’t even get in.”

To his surprise, Wooyoung only rolls his eyes. “Here’s your first rule,” he says as he leads San around the corner. “If it’s between dying and finding a solution, you better learn how to become a problem-solver.”

True to his word, there’s a long indention in the rusted metal on the side, where the building’s structure has failed to stay together and is cracking at the seams. Wooyoung gives a couple of rough kicks until it falls open, leaving a large hole in the construction.

“Come here,” he calls for San, calling for him with a waving hand as he gets on his knees to crawl through the hole. San follows him obediently, still slightly surprised and to a point horrified. This was not only _illegal_ , but it was probably extremely dangerous. He doesn’t even know what this place was supposed to be.

When they are finally able to stand to full height, San sees the upper floor above them— a wrap around catwalk against the edges of the muddy-colored walls. The center of the place is barren, save for a few sprawled mattresses and random flyers.

“Do people often sleep here?” San whispers as they approach the few beds on the floor, too frightened to talk any louder because of the echo of their footsteps. Wooyoung shakes his head and throws himself atop one of them, rolling to the side and patting the space next to him.

“People rarely know how to get in,” Wooyoung yawns. “But I got really desperate one night and I found the entryway, so now I stop by every time I’m near here. It’s where I sleep most.”

“You hang around specific areas?”

“Everyone’s different,” he shrugs. “I don’t have a destination in mind, so I just move wherever I like whenever I want to. It’s good to stay by places you know will provide though. Learning the in’s and out’s of new areas can be frustrating and dangerous.”

San frowns to that, sitting down at the edge of the mattress and allowing his legs to draw upwards so he can rest his head on his knees. He feels Wooyoung shift a little behind him, before settling still.

“If I stay with you...will you really make sure I’m alright? Do you actually care about whether or not I die?”

He hears Wooyoung laugh— this high-pitched squeak that makes his cheeks go red in a mix of anger and shame. 

_“Look,”_ San huffs, “If you want to be an asshole about it then—”

“I care,” Wooyoung sighs. “Of course I care. You’re young and stupid and I don’t want to be part of the reason why that gets you killed.”

“It’s a guilt thing?” San says, turning around to find Wooyoung’s back facing him.

“San,” he calls back softly.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and go to sleep.”

San huffs at that, but the sight of Wooyoung’s body curling in on itself is enough motive for him to listen. He lies down ramrod straight on his back, staring at the flaking ceiling.

From here, the myriad of colors looks like a blood-ridden version of the universe they’re in.

* * *

  
  


San’s awakened with a rough hand to his shoulder, which makes him startle violently and rise up so quickly his head begins to ache.

“We gotta go,” Wooyoung’s rushing out. He’s grabbing San’s bag and shoving it in his lap before the other has the chance to register what’s going on, but years of dodging angry hands takes over his instinctual movement and causes him to run when Wooyoung drags him up.

The sunlight is beating down on his barely opened eyes, but he doesn’t think much of it besides listening to his sneakers hitting the ground as he follows Wooyoung’s silhouette. They run up and down a few different streets and through an alleyway before Wooyoung finally stops, and San finds himself forcefully slowing behind him. His anxiety is already beginning to thrum with the urge to— _evade, run, leave_ — but there’s no danger in sight and Wooyoung doesn’t look the slightest bit worried beneath his sweat.

“We made it in time,” he says with a smile. 

San looks before him to see a small food truck with pink and blue frills lining the open window. There’s a long line that snakes around it full of people in differing shades of dirtied clothes. 

It doesn’t take him long to realize what this is.

“I’m friends with the owners,” Wooyoung provides. He leads San towards the crowd with a soft hold on his hand, wading through them gently to come up towards one of the sides. “They’re very kind people— husbands, in fact.”

“Husbands?” San quirks a brow, knowing that it wasn’t particularly... _legal_.

“They married in America,” Wooyoung snorts at him. “They were teenage runaways like you and I. They managed to start up a business of their own and now they’re here, serving breakfast to both homeless and poor people for free.”

“That’s...amazing,” San whispers, looking around him to see people of all origins and looks. It baffled him, to know everyone here was— to some extent— like him.

It makes his heart ache.

“Hyung!” Wooyoung greets up at the window once it’s their turn. A man with shortly-cut white hair bends past the opening, looking down at Wooyoung and smiling wide.

“Thought I’d never see you again,” he comments lightly. He reaches a hand down and ruffles it through Wooyoung’s long locks, San all the more intrigued by their relationship as Wooyoung seems to lean up into the touch. “You’re a crazy little demon, huh?”

“I’m alive,” Wooyoung says with a shrug, “think you should be grateful about that one.”

“I am,” he sighs back. “But what brings you out here?”

As if prompted by the question, Wooyoung grabs San by the forearm and shoves him forward. He stumbles over his own feet, trying not to collide with the front of the truck.

“This is San,” Wooyoung grins. “He’s my new travel buddy.”

As if everyone in this world can sniff out his circumstances just with a single gaze, the white-haired man hums and leans down to rub a calloused thumb gently over San’s cheek. To his own surprise, he lets him.

“You’re rather clean,” is what the man says. “I take it you haven’t been on the streets very long?”

“No sir,” San frowns. “It’s only been a day.”

“Let’s hope it’s not gonna be much longer than that.”

“Hongjoong-Hyung,” Wooyoung rolls his eyes, “you gonna serve us?”

“Of course, brat, but only because of your new friend here.” He shoots San a kind grin before he shakes his head in Wooyoung’s direction, watching as the young kid giggles in delight.

A few moments later, another man pokes his head out of the window and gazes at Wooyoung tightly. He’s got gray hair and is considerably taller, given the way he crouches lower to stick his head out of the window.

“Wooyoung-ie,” he frowns. “Why are you here?”

“I’ve brought my friend for breakfast; his name is San. He’s a runaway like me.”

The gray-haired male is kind enough to offer his hand to San, who shakes it with a soft _‘how are you?’_ that the man smiles at. His name is Seonghwa. He’s also the one who comes back with their cups of soup.

“It’s good to have soup in this weather,” Seonghwa smiles at him. “The both of you are in sleeveless shirts...you better find a change of attire soon. Autumn’s going to be over eventually.”

San and Wooyoung give him a dutiful nod at that, taking their soup cups with them and walking a little ways down the road to take up space on the curb.

“Hyung makes really good soup, actually,” Wooyoung laughs. “You’d be surprised how much I had it for like— a month straight. I basically followed their truck everywhere it went and tried to have the meal three times a day.”

“Is getting meals always going to be like this?” San finds himself asking it as he sips on the liquid, enjoying the warm feeling it spreads throughout his stomach. He feels as though he hasn’t eaten in weeks.

“We might go to bed hungry, some nights.” Wooyoung shrugs his shoulders like it’s not a big deal, tipping the rest of the soup down his throat. “And if push comes to shove, we’ll be dumpster diving for whatever’s edible.”

“Are you serious?” San’s eyes bulge with how wide he feels them getting, leaning into Wooyoung’s side and trying to meet his gaze.

“I won’t let it get that bad,” Wooyoung grins when he sees him, leaning back and pushing their foreheads together. It startles San, who almost drops his soup cup. “I promised to take care of you, right? You won’t know a single bit of sadness or starvation.”

San finds himself grinning back at that, lips upturned with a cat-like smile that mirrors Wooyoung’s own.

“You’re really cocky, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Wooyoung laughs, “‘Course I do. It’s what people like about me.”

“I guess it is,” San mutters into his soup cup. “I guess it really is.”

* * *

  
  


With their stomachs full and their energy high, Wooyoung prompts San to tell him some of his desires for how he wished to spend his teenage years.

“I’ve never had dreams like that,” he frowns. Wooyoung had said so proudly _‘I’ll make your every dream come true’_ that San almost felt bad for having none.

“Everyone has an idea, deep down,” Wooyoung grins. “It’s really early in the day, so we can go almost anywhere.”

“We don’t have money though,” San points to his bag, which only carried enough change for a single can of soda and a tube of lip balm. Admittedly, he regrets not having filled it up before leaving his house, but it’s not like he had any valuables from home that were worth staying and dying for.

“You don’t need money on my side of the city,” Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “You just know the right people and the world is yours.”

When Wooyoung speaks— with such conviction and leadership on his lips— San can’t tell what’s a bluff and what isn’t. He’d already provided thus far with a place to sleep and food, so San’s had no reason to distrust him until now.

“Tell you what,” Wooyoung smiles, “we can go meet some more friends of mine, if you want to. I bet they’ll even give us tonight’s place to sleep.”

San can’t fight him, when he’s grinning so widely and hiding his eyes behind pitch black bangs. His bandaged arms are crossed behind his head, and he looks— undefeatable, unbothered, unhurried. How could San fight that?

“Alright,” he sighs. “Just make sure we get there before nightfall. It gets really cold these days.”

“Your wish is my command!” Wooyoung is grinning, and then he’s running ahead with only a bandaged hand behind to ensure San’s following.

  
  


Traveling with Wooyoung is fun, at the very least. He’s pointing to random buildings and talking about his memories there— how he knows, or owns, or has connection to every single part of the city. He’s all-knowing about everything, and whether or not it makes San naïve, he listens attentively and takes it all as fact. Wooyoung seems to have friends just about everywhere, which makes him all the more curious as to which ones they’re visiting.

“There’s this club down a really hidden alleyway,” he says after a while. “I know a lot of the people who work there. They don’t mind giving free alcohol, if that’s your thing.”

“I don’t drink,” San frowns. “Plus, I’m a minor. We can’t drink.”

“Legality is for wimps,” Wooyoung sighs. “Rule number two: if you want to have _any_ fun, you’re going to have to lose a little bit of your morals.”

“I don’t think that’s a good rule—”

“We’re here!” Wooyoung shouts. By now, the sun is starting to fall from the heavens and some of the marquees are lighting up, revealing a glistening set of stars against the backdrop of the night sky. Out here, it was incredibly difficult to see any of the cosmos at all— which made the city lights all the more tantalizing to San, who was missing constellations now more than ever.

“Two things,” Wooyoung murmurs as they approach the door. “Don’t tell anyone your real age, and don’t accept anything from anyone I don’t introduce you to.”

“Are you sure this is safe?” San asks him, watching as Wooyoung opens the door and only gives him a jerky shrug in response.

The inside of the club is almost exactly as San had pictured clubs would be— dingy, dimly-lit and smelling of something promptly seedy and ill. Probably a mix of liquor and bodily fluids, though he tries not to think too deeply of it to avoid feeling queasy.

“San-ah!” Wooyoung calls, yelling over the music that is admittedly much too loud for San’s ears. “Stay close!”

He offers a hand to San, who takes it readily and focuses entirely on the feeling of the bandages beneath his fingertips. It’s oddly grounding, as he tries to zero in on Wooyoung’s backside instead of paying attention to any of his surroundings. This entire experience is already jarring, much less the backdrop making his head pound and his eyes bulge.

They come up to a counter where the music is a little less loud, walls lined with alcohol ahead of them and the ceiling pouring with miscellaneous dried stains. San doesn’t even want to look down at his shoes— too afraid of what the ground looks like in a place like this.

Wooyoung is calling to someone, distantly despite being right next to San, and the constant steady bass of the music filters through any of his remaining senses until it’s all he can sense. Wooyoung must be talking to someone, surely, but San wouldn’t know if he was.

His bubble is burst by a hand clapping along the small of his back, Wooyoung’s laugh flamboyant and comforting in his ears. 

“This is San!” He says loudly. “San, this is Keonhee-Hyung!”

Keonhee, as it turns out, is the overly tall and kind-looking bartender that’s been up to the task of serving tonight. He’s cleaning a glass with a rag before he smiles down at San, looming but in a protective way that makes San greet him back in a quiet whimper of a voice.

“It’s a pleasure,” Keonhee says. He gets close enough that he can speak at normal volume, though his breath nearly brushes San’s cheek. “You must be Wooyoung’s new travel buddy, hm?”

San nods to that, watching as Keonhee filters around the counter before he’s producing a can of orange soda and settling it down in front of San.

“I know your type,” he says softly. “It’s alright, go ahead and take it.”

San only thanks him with a bob of his head, spending the rest of the time watching Wooyoung and Keonhee chat sweetly as he nurses the soda in his hands and sips away at it mindlessly.

After a while, San tells Wooyoung he needs to use the restroom, to which the other smiles and nods, pointing at a door down the hall.

“It's a single room,” Wooyoung whispers into his ear. It sends a shiver up and down San’s spine as he nods, cheeks ruddy. 

When he stands up to walk away, he swears he sees Keonhee in his peripheral, studying him with a curiously knowing look.

  
  


True to Wooyoung’s word, the bathroom is a single toilet and sink that locks on the inside. It’s reassuring to San, who feels he wouldn’t be able to function in a place with stalls or urinals. But at the same time, it’s curious. Why have a bathroom for just one person in a place like this?

He’s washing his hands when a fist bangs on the door, loud and obnoxious as it continues its onslaught.

“It’s occupied!” He yells back, listening to the bangs slow to a stop. He huffs a sigh as he reaches for a napkin to dry his hands when suddenly, the bangs start up again.

“I’m almost out!” He calls, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth when the bangs continue. He’s almost scared to open the door, though he sucks a breath in and does so when his lungs are full.

Almost immediately, he comes face to face with a drunk man who’s staring at him like he’s going to rip him in two, which makes San squeak and back up against the sink.

“Get out,” the guy rolls his eyes. “Like, right now!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

Before he even gets a chance to say anything, the guy is throwing him by his shoulder outside of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and locking it loudly.

San only stays a second longer to hear a loud series of gags, which makes his throat clench tight in disgust before he’s quickly rushing back to his seat.

Only, Wooyoung isn’t there.

Panic overtakes him, because _of course_ Wooyoung would leave him alone in a place like this. Of course, of all times and of all places, Wooyoung would mindlessly enjoy himself and leave San here with no one and nothing after being yelled at by some guy who’s puking his guts out. Of course San’s breath would quicken, and his eyes would shake, and his body would tremble as he—

“Hey,” Keonhee’s hand is on his shoulder; a comforting blanket of his shadow hitting the ground just before San’s feet. “You alright?”

San wants to say something— anything— but his eyes are filling up with tears and he feels ridiculous for not being able to control it.

“It’s alright,” Keonhee coos. He’s lifting San up with his hands on both of his shoulders, walking him towards the back where it’s quiet.

In the backroom that Keonhee leads him to, San comes face to face with a group of strangers all sitting at a round table. It’s covered in different types of food and liquor, the walls fogged up with lasting remnants of where people must have been smoking, but the cigarettes were all out by now.

They turn to him quickly, their eyes widening as they study his shaking form.

“Guys,” Keonhee smiles at them, “Could you watch San while I get back to the floor? I think he’s been left behind by his friend for a bit.”

The group seems fine with that, allowing him to walk off as one of the men scoot aside and gesture for San to have a seat.

“You look tense, kid,” he’s cooing at him. He brings up an open can of pungent smelling liquid and nudges it to San’s lips. “Here, have a drink.”

“He’s a baby,” one of the other guys whines. “He can’t have alcohol, Youngjo!”

“Well how am I supposed to know that!”

“Maybe the fact that he looks like a teenager,” someone says boredly, to which the man— Youngjo, as San faintly notes him— groans.

“Dongju, you look like a fucking high schooler too, so don’t tell me he looks like a kid.”

The group laughs at that, nudging at one another’s sides and finding it much funnier than San does. He only watches them quietly, before tapping the can that Youngjo had been offering him.

“What is it?” He asks quietly, eyes round and timid as Youngjo smiles.

“It’s just plain beer,” he says softly. “You ever had any?”

San shakes his head, and another guy seems to coo at him.

“You’re innocent,” Youngjo whines, as if he finds the fact endearing. “Why the hell are you in a place like this?”

“My friend brought me here,” San says honestly. “But I don’t know where he is now.”

“What kind of friend abandons their buddy?” Someone says— the one that had been cooing at him the moment he sat down, and who had told Youngjo he couldn’t have any alcohol. “That’s irresponsible, you know.”

He looks at San with a sweet grin, pushing over a plate that has marinated chicken on it.

“You might be hungry,” he says sweetly. “Go ahead and have some.”

San thinks back to what Wooyoung had said— about taking what people offer him— but he is hungry and these people seem sweet enough.

He accepts the plate without any further question.

  
  


They end up being very sweet to him, he finds. They offer him snack after snack and eventually, through a bet and a game, he manages to chug down some alcohol. Youngjo’s cheering on his new-found tolerance while another— Hwanwoong, he thinks his name is— is getting him to try a harder liquor and laughing when San manages to down it without grimacing.

“He’s a natural,” Youngjo grins. “You sure you’ve never done this before, kid?”

San shakes his head— or at least, he tries to, considering he almost slumps over while doing it.

“Oh,” the one who’s been sweet to him all night frowns. “You’re tired, huh? You need somewhere to sleep it off. Geonhak, help me please?”

Seoho, as San now knows the cooing one, and his friend Geonhak are suddenly on either side of him, lifting him gently and trying to get him to stand.

“I don’t think he’s going to make it anywhere without passing out,” Dongju sighs. “He’s wasted.”

“Make sure to give him a puke bucket!” Hwanwoong calls, watching them leave with him in tow as Youngjo follows closely behind. There’s a strange commotion where they’re talking animatedly in a hushed whisper, but San doesn’t catch any of it as he tries to stop wobbling along the steps they’re making him take upwards. _Stairs_ — he thinks belatedly. _We’re going upstairs?_

San doesn’t know where he is, eventually. The lights are swirling above his head and he’s cushioned gently on what feels like a cloud, with a soft wisp of cotton being placed entirely over his body. His head is resting onto something soft, and someone’s voice is wishing him a good rest before it’s all gone.

* * *

  
  


When San wakes up, his mouth is made of sandpaper and his stomach is pushing up against his throat— saying _out, out, now._

He bolts upwards and makes eye contact with an empty bucket for only two seconds before he’s lunging at it, legs curled up in a blanket as he falls to his knees on the floor and drags it with him. He ends up bent over the bucket, emptying everything that had been in his stomach over and over endlessly. 

His throat burns and his eyes are pricking with tears. He’s _never_ , in his entire life, felt this much inner dread when the memories of the night before wash over him.

He’d gotten drunk. _Extremely drunk._ And now he’s here in the aftermath, in a room that’s not his all alone, vomiting into a small bucket on the floor. 

He’s mortified. 

  
  


Besides his initial nausea that ends with his guts completely outside of himself, San ends up getting a headache so intense that he finds himself wrapped beneath the blankets on the bed, crying softly and whining even more when the shakes of his sobs only serve to make his head throb.

It’s already been a long morning.

There’s a series of three knocks on the door of the room before it opens, San’s body going still as someone’s weight begins to press down on the surface of the mattress.

“How are you feeling?”

San peeks up just a little bit to see Seoho’s worried face, which is frowning sadly and yet still somehow remains sweet. He reaches a hand below the blanket and brushes some of San’s hair away.

“Kids like you really shouldn’t be in a place like this,” he sighs. “Go home.”

“I don’t have one,” San whispers back weakly, voice cracking at the edges as his eyes brim with tears again.

“You don’t have a home?” Seoho’s eyes widen at that, body sliding off the bed so he can rest his face just beyond San’s. “You came to a place like this, not even having somewhere to go back to?”

“I’m a runaway,” San says, nearly crying now.

“How old are you?” Seoho’s asking him, careful with the amount of pressure he puts on the blanket to pull it back the slightest bit. San shivers at the way the cold air of the room hits his bare shoulder.

He thinks about Wooyoung’s rules and how he’s broken them, though he thinks again about the fact that Wooyoung isn’t here. 

It makes him want to cry harder.

“I’m seventeen,” he murmurs.

Seoho seems deeply disturbed by the information, lifting San up gently and positioning him so his back is against the bed frame.

“We’re going to have to find a place for you to go,” he frowns. “Youngjo’s been asking around for your buddy since last night, but the only person who knows him is Keonhee.”

“Does Keonhee know where he went?” San asks hoarsely.

“He says he just got up in the middle of the conversation,” Seoho shrugs. “Like he was in a hurry, I guess?”

San frowns at that, staring down at his fingers as they meet across the top of the sheets.

“He promised he wouldn’t leave me behind,” San cries. “He’s a liar.”

“Oh…” Seoho is kind enough to give him a hug, gentle as he holds him and patting away at his hair. “I wish it was that simple in this world, but it’s not.”

San knows that now too.

“Let’s see if we can get anything into your stomach this early,” Seoho beckons him, lifting him up and allowing him to step off the bed on his own accord. But the rest of the way past the door and down the hall, Seoho’s holding him tightly by the hand.

“Is this a hotel?” San asks curiously, with his head darting as quick as it can, given his headache.

“There’s housing units above the club,” Seoho smiles at him. They make their way into an elevator quietly, still pressed side by side. “It’s for people who are too hungover to get home, or those who feel unsafe going home in the middle of the night. It’s a very considerate club.”

“It seemed special,” San murmurs. “There’s only one toilet…”

Seoho laughs at that, nodding in agreement. “It's inconvenient, but it keeps patrons safe.”

San wonders how ugly the world is, that such precautions had to be taken just for people to be okay with coming here.

* * *

  
  


Seoho is kind to him, along with all of his new friends from last night, while they wait in the same room they’d taken up space in before. The table is clean and the smoke is all gone now, leaving them in the broad daylight with bare faces and softer clothes to chew on their fingernails as Youngjo paces back and forth just outside the door.

Keonhee tells San as soon as they meet each other again that he’s beginning to think Wooyoung didn’t leave out of mindlessness, but out of necessity.

“Thinking back on it now, I think he was panicking,” he frowns. “He might have been in danger, but I wouldn’t know.”

Youngjo, as he happily reintroduces himself, turns out to be the owner of the entire place. That much takes San by surprise, considering he’d been the one to try and offer him alcohol. He’d thought that type of thing to be under the table.

“Youngjo’s a bit of a free spirit,” Hwanwoong smiles at him. “But he’s responsible enough. If anyone can find your friend across the city, it’s probably him.”

“Do you think Wooyoung is in danger?” Geonhak asks after a while, turning to San and gazing at him with a certain sadness that San can’t quite place.

San shrugs his shoulders at that, staring down at his feet and the floor.

Youngjo comes back eventually, a worried look to his eyes when he puts his phone back in his pocket.

“They spotted him by the tower around three in the morning, but there’s been no reports of him since.”

“What time is it now?” San leans over to Seoho’s shoulder, who’s holding up his wrist and frowning.

“It’s almost going to be eight, so not much time has passed. He couldn’t have gone far, right?”

Youngjo worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “Five hours is a long time to travel on foot. I don’t know how far he would or wouldn’t go. Depends if he’s got a destination in mind or not.”

San finds himself standing, staring at everyone and bowing deeply to them.

“I should get going.”

The room goes quiet at that— the implication of his words weighing deep on everyone. They know what he’s saying, and they know he’s not asking permission for it either.

“You can stay here for a bit,” Seoho pleads with him anyway. “Just until we find him. We can make a search party for him.”

San denies him, much to everyone’s disappointment.

“I need to get back out there,” he smiles sadly. “You’ve all got your own lives to get back to; I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not a burden, kid,” Youngjo frowns at him. “You’ve got an iron heart, you know. Not a lot of people your age do. This is dangerous no matter how you look at it.”

“With all due respect,” San says with a sigh, “Wooyoung is my friend and I’m partially to blame for him just up and disappearing. I’ll accept help if you’re offering it, but it’s not going to stop me from conducting my own search.”

Youngjo doesn’t fight him, much as he wants to. His mouth opens and closes before eventually it breaks into an easy grin.

“Just be careful, okay?”

San gives them all hugs on his way out, throwing his bag around his shoulder and bowing deeply in thanks for everything they’ve given him thus far.

“You’re always welcome here,” Keonhee says gently. “You and all your friends.”

San doesn’t have the heart to tell him Wooyoung was his only friend— so instead he promises to make good on the offer one day, in the distant future.

* * *

  
  


He comes determined, the moment he gets out onto the streets, to find Wooyoung himself.

The city is large and sprawling across many days and nights worth of travel, but San would spend a long while out in the cold if it meant getting an answer. Wooyoung promised to be his guide, and there was no way San was going to pass up on that promise now.

There’s a bus stop just outside of the alleyway where San finds a map that showcases the majority of the area nearby. The “tower”— as Youngjo had put it— was only a single bus ride away.

But when San takes a look at the prices for a bus ticket, he decides to walk the distance on foot.

His body is still aching from the hangover, and the early morning has decided to hide the sun from him in a chill wind that’s being wafted through by the clouds. It’s painful, and slow, but he’s determined to make the trek regardless.

Things are quiet without Wooyoung— they feel almost aimless and empty when he crosses the street feeling awkwardly alone. Wooyoung runs with an eased purpose that’s not at all bothered by a thing, as if he fits right into the scenery behind him and no one is sparing him a passing glance. He operates under this strangely comfortable veil of irrelevancy and obscurity, like he’s invisible to the world and can do whatever he wants.

San feels sore, down to his heart. Thinking about Wooyoung now brings up mixed up emotions. He feels like shit and is even more emotionally tired, but he’s not sure if Wooyoung is even to blame. _He wouldn’t just up and disappear without a reason, right?”_

There’s a rotating voice playing in his head, switching between _‘he’s fine’_ and _‘he’s left you behind already’_ in a loop San can’t shake. At some point his body is on autopilot as it drifts to the looming silhouette of the tower, his mind in shambles and raining down in shards above his head.

He feels ragged and dirty, the closer to the tower he gets. People are dressed nicely and taking photos for the sake of their social media or scrapbooks— but San is still as sweat-drenched and exhausted as he’s been the past few days.

He wonders if Wooyoung’s ever felt the same.

“Hey,” someone’s gesturing towards San in his peripheral vision, making him turn around abruptly enough that his headache begins to creep back in.

It’s some man in khakis and a button-up shirt, who’s holding a phone to his ear and snapping a crisp dress-shoe against the concrete.

“You’re here for the tour, right?” The man’s asking him, approaching San even as he tightens a hand on the strap of his bag and vehemently shakes his head.

“No, sorry,” San says while looking around— there were neither crowds nor people who seemed to be looking for the man or waiting on him, so San has no real idea what he’s talking about.

“Look,” the man sighs. “It’s free and today’s a slow day. Why not just go on it then, kid?”

“I’m busy,” San says quickly. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“Well then you can contact them and tell them to come join,” the man counters. It feels... _odd_. He seems pushy, like San doesn’t really have a choice in the matter.

A chill runs down San’s back from the cold. “We’re not here to see the tower. We just agreed to meet in this spot.”

“This is an expensive tour, kid,” he says anyway. “I’m serious. It’s not like every day it’s going to be offered for free. You can get your friend to join us on the way— there’s a complimentary meal at the beginning of the tour too.”

San perks up at that— at the idea of food.

Although Seoho had tried to get him to eat something, San was too queasy then. He’d passed up on the opportunity and left on an empty stomach, though now after coming all this way, hunger was starting to rise up again.

_Don’t get sidetracked,_ he thinks. _You need to find Wooyoung._

“If that’s not enough,” the old man smiles, “we’ll do a tour of the entire surrounding area as well. Who knows, you might find an excellent hole-in-the-wall spot to go with your friend!”

San finds himself nodding quickly— thinking to himself that he’s accomplishing both of his tasks at once. For once in his life, he feels quick-witted and sharp as Wooyoung always seems to look.

_Wooyoung-ah_ , he thinks to himself as the man gestures for him to follow along, _I’m going to find you._

  
  


As promised, the man gives San a meal. In exchange, he asks a little about his background— his age and his name, which San offers rather blandly without a care. His eyes are more focused on the meat on his plate that he scarfs down rapidly.

“You look like you haven’t eaten in awhile,” the man whistles lowly. “Quite interesting.”

“I just forgot to eat breakfast,” San counters, mouth full.

The man doesn’t offer his name when San asks him— instead telling him just to call him _‘tour guide’_ as though it’ll suffice. The redirection of it makes San feel a little put off, but he continues to eat the meal regardless.

“There’s a lot of amazing places around here,” his tour guide smiles. “You’d be surprised at how much goes on that no one knows about.”

_You would too,_ San thinks to himself sadly. _Like boys going missing and their friends searching to find them._

“Why offer complimentary meals?” San asks instead, spinning the conversation around a little as he slurps up the last of his noodles and shovels the remainder of the meat down his throat.

“It’s a guarantee system. The tour is so naturally expensive that we offer compensational side luxuries to ensure customers are getting everything they pay for. The cost of the meal might as well be included in the package, but it’s free of charge because of our company’s generosity.”

San finds himself blinking at that.

“Why offer it to me for free then?”

“You ask a lot of questions, kid,” the tour guide sighs. “But I’m sure the majority of them will be answered on the rest of the tour. It’s perfect for young boys and girls in your age range for a multitude of reasons. Gives us a good rep with the little ones too.”

The tour guide offers him a sickening smile that makes San’s stomach churn.

“I think I’m gonna head to the bathroom,” San mutters. “You can wait for me by the entrance, I’ll be right out.”

“Of course,” he says, smile fading.

San doesn’t stick around long enough to see what expression it fades into.

  
  


He ends up locked in one of the stalls in the bathroom, weighing out his options. This guy bought him a meal, yes, but he doesn’t feel safe around him. If anything, he’s beginning to (belatedly) realize the guy probably doesn’t have any good intentions.

He curses his own naivety, staring at the blank walls of the bathroom and wishing there were a window. He was unintentionally riding on the fact that there would be one, so he could escape through it, but that plan was useless now.

What does he do? Pretend like his friend got here and make away with a stranger who offers him their sympathy? That plan didn’t sound so bad, the more he thought about it. Anything was better than ending up in a psychopath’s car.

The sound of the restroom door opening makes him flinch, curling further into himself in the corner of the stall.

There’s a gentle knock on his door, and he gets on his knees to look down.

The ends of khaki pants and dress-shoes greet him.

“S-Sorry,” he stutters. “I’m gonna be a minute.”

“The tour is on a strict time table. If you don’t hurry up we’re going to miss the next joint bus.”

San fidgets uneasily at the harsh tone of his voice, curling further into himself and wondering if it’s acceptable behavior to start screaming.

“Maybe you can go without me,” San suggests. “I think I’m gonna...take awhile…”

He hears the tour guide huff, his feet clicking against the cold tile of the restroom floor as he paces outside of San’s stall.

There’s what sounds like a phone pinging with a notification.

“I’ll just wait for you here,” he says gruffly. “There’ll be another bus after this one anyway.”

_Then why pressure me?_ San almost wants to ask, just to poke at him for his strange behavior. But he doesn’t know the nature of this man’s personality or his true intentions, and he’d rather walk on thin ice than sink right through.

“...Okay.”

San’s never been religious, but in this small stall, pushed into the corner, he prays to every god there is that he’ll really be okay.

* * *

  
  


Eventually, enough time passes where it becomes unreasonable for San to still be on the toilet, so he leaves the stall and washes his hands with the man’s eyes on his back.

He’s staring at him through the mirror, a hand in the pocket of his pressed khakis and the other around his phone.

He follows San out unnaturally close, nearly pressing shoulder to shoulder despite the large width of the hallway. Even people nearby who watch them pass stare with odd looks, as if San’s jerky hold on his bag is more than enough to give it away.

“The bus is going to be here in five minutes,” the tour guide sighs. “Wait right here, I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?” San finds himself asking, despite having wanted to get away from him all this time. _That easily?_ After cornering him in the bathroom and pressing him to come along? He’d really give San the chance to run away that quickly?

_Maybe he really is a tour guide…_

“I’m going to the vending machine just around the corner,” the man shrugs. “It’ll be a long bus ride.”

San furrows his brows at that, but says nothing as the man walks away.

He ends up staying still, for a minute or two. His mind is whirring with the options— to run or see where this takes him. Would he be any better running off than getting on a nondescript bus with this guy who’s been giving him the creeps?

_Wooyoung._ He needs to find Wooyoung.

It’s motivation enough for his feet to start running, kicking up into a random direction that he knows won’t lead him back to the tour guide. He’s sprinting for his life, thinking of Wooyoung, thinking of needing to stay on track and strong so that he can just find him again.

And then he runs straight into someone’s back.

“I’m sorry!” He says, clutching his nose and squeezing tight his watering eyes. He’d ran face first into the person’s silhouette.

“You look a lot more built than we thought,” the person hums. San’s opening his eyes, trying to get a look— but his vision is blurred from the tears that have sprung there. In an effort to blink them away, he sees flashes of the silhouette— morphing into two, and then three and then four, as they approach him. He thinks his brain is playing tricks on him— _maybe I’ve got a head injury_ — but then he feels multiple pairs of hands on his body.

“We thought you’d be a little smarter than that,” another voice is whispering into his ear, making him jolt in his skin. He feels afraid, as they wrap all of their arms around him.

“But I guess you’re not as clever as you think,” another person snorts. “Fucking mutt, thinking he can run away after being a little bitch.”

Someone else murmurs something— a mix of the word _‘cute’_ and _‘bitch’_ that makes San try to shove his elbow into the nearest silhouette’s side. It misses wildly and he ends up with his arm twisted painfully in someone’s hold.

“Be _nice_ ,” the first voice growls at him.

“Go to hell,” San spits back.

And just when his vision is clearing up, there’s a sick grin staring back at him and a cloth-covered hand flying over his mouth.

He takes a deep breath in, and feels the world going black.

* * *

  
  


When he wakes up, his body feels sluggish and his senses are all muddy.

It’s like if he was repeating the morning over— his hangover prevalent and yet, he’s still somehow drunk. Even worse than that, he feels like a shell. He’s screaming, pushing for his limbs to move and something to give, but in the end his mouth barely makes little more than a soft whimper of noise.

His hands are tied; a rough rope grips his wrists and binds them together crudely, the material already giving way into the soft flesh and beginning to tear it up. His ankles are left free, but it doesn’t matter with how little he can move.

He tries to push— tries to whimper more, because at least sound is something— but he gets tired so quickly that he can’t do anything. His mind is working its hardest to make coherent thoughts, though not much else but his dry throat and his aching wrists are registered in his senses.

He hears murmurs— people talking, in the distance— and he tries to blink awake. He’s trying to just _exist_ , but it proves heavy on his tongue along with his breaths.

Tears spring to his eyes in frustration, the only thing his body allows him to do freely. He sits on the floor and cries, silently and with abandon. 

And then he hears the sounds of a struggle before his world goes dark again.

  
  


Waking up a second time, his head is a little clearer and he has enough power to jerk about his ankles. He can’t stand, after trying a few times and unceremoniously flopping to the floor in a heaving ball, but at the very least he can tug at his wrists and feels some of his voice return.

“Hello?” He calls out to the empty room. Even with his vision present, the room is pitch black and silent. As far as he can tell, there is no entry or exit. If there was, it’s blended in perfectly with one of the other three walls that he’s not pressed up against.

He feels a chill, the first sign of life in his body that it’s reacting to outside conditions. The feeling of his sweat dripping down comes next, and then the nerves in his wrists finally fade back into feeling, sending a pained shock up his arm that makes him yelp. His wrists are bruised up and scraped to the point of beading blood, with how deep into his skin the rope has been trying to make itself.

“Hello?” He tries again, a little bit more desperate. His brain wants to flitter through every decision he’s made over the past few days and how it’s left him here— but in the end, it seems redundant to. He just knows he misses Wooyoung, and that he feels afraid.

He hears something— something not too far off, like it could be on the other side of the room. He wouldn’t know if there was, since he can’t see a thing. Something could be right in front of him and he wouldn’t know it.

He pushes his body forward onto his knees and shoulders, slumped with his lower back high in the air as he starts to wiggle against the ground sloppily. He lifts himself up to his bound hands and plants them beneath his weight, waddling forward on his knees and hopping a little bit each time with his spread hands catching onto the floor. It’s a painful and slow moving process, but with what little senses he has, he’s glad he can move at all.

“Hello?” He calls a third time, strained and desperate for someone to respond. He hears a grunt in reply.

“Hey,” he cries weakly, eyes filling with tears at the prospect of someone here with him. “Hey, we’re gonna get out of here, okay?”

A groan, followed by shuffling and someone stomping their shoes against the ground. San doesn’t know what it means or why it’s happening, but he pushes forward anyway and crawls a little faster.

“Hey,” San sobs a little, “can you give me a sign?”

_A sign that you’re alive, a sign that I’m not alone—_

_A sign that I’m not going to die like this._

There’s a muffled sniffle that sounds like it breaks into a whimper, and San holds onto the sound for as long as he can when it stretches into silence.

“San?” A broken voice calls into the dark.

San stills.

“Wooyoung?”

There’s the sound of feet stomping down again, like Wooyoung is banging his feet towards the floor to get some feeling running through them. It must work, because suddenly there’s the sound of shuffling and skin planting onto the ground, and then there’s a breath on San’s face in the dark.

“San-ah,” Wooyoung whispers brokenly. “Hey.”

_Hey_ , San thinks. _You went missing for a day and I worried sick about you, and all you can greet me while we’re tied up here is a fucking ‘hey.’_

He’s never been more glad to hear that word in his entire life.

“Hey,” San chokes back, rising to his knees and sitting like he’s going to pray. He thinks Wooyoung rises to match the position, because there’s bound hands trying to slide their respective arms in a loop around his head. San accepts it, nuzzling into Wooyoung with his hands pressed in between their chests.

“I thought you died,” San sobs— broken and weeping in despair and relief alike. He can’t tell if this is a good or bad moment for them. Can’t tell if this is the beginning or the end.

“I’m not gonna die,” Wooyoung laughs against him. “I might get hurt, but I won’t die. I promised to show you a lot of great things, didn’t I?”

“Where did you go?” San’s whimpering into his shirt, soaking through the thin black fabric with his tears. “I was so scared…”

“I know,” Wooyoung sighs, “I’m sorry.”

It takes a long while of placating and cooing for San to stop crying in Wooyoung’s arms, though by then they’re both tired and the pitch black of the room isn’t helping San’s grogginess at all. He thinks, for only a bare second, that maybe they were— 

“Your system is probably going to be in and out,” Wooyoung sighs. “I don’t know what fucking drugs they’ve been using, but it makes you sluggish.”

“Are we gonna die?” San whispers, throat feeling like it’s closing in on itself as he slumps a little to the ground. There’s murmuring far off in the distance— maybe the people who were keeping watch of them, San wouldn’t know.

“No,” Wooyoung laughs quietly. “No Sannie, I promise we’re not going to die.”

San tries to believe him, as his body starts to tip off into a light and restless slumber.

  
  


“San-ah,” Wooyoung shakes him awake, much gentler than he did the first time. “San, you need to get up.”

“Mm?”

“They’re going to give us water,” Wooyoung whispers. “Don’t drink it, okay?”

San stills at that, eyes fluttering open to reveal an illuminated ceiling. He can see the room they’re in now, with the lights on.

They’re pressed against the wall farthest away from the door, in a room that’s blandly lain with peeling wallpaper and a cement floor. 

There’s nothing though, besides the bulb in the center of the ceiling above them.

“Don’t drink the water?” San whispers back, throat burning in need for liquid that undoubtedly would not come now.

“It’s got stuff in it,” Wooyoung hums. “Just...don’t take it, okay?”

San nods, allowing his eyes to shut for a few minutes as they hear shuffling outside of the door.

There’s the resounding sound of a click before it opens roughly, creaking along its edges to reveal a man in a low-settled hat to cover his own eyes. He’s wearing all black and carrying two small paper cups of water.

“Here,” he says roughly as he thrusts the cups between their tied hands. “Drink so you don’t die of dehydration.”

“What’s it matter if we die anyways?” Wooyoung spits out, San watching his expression turn aggressive and objecting.

To San’s horror, the man doesn’t even answer him— just promptly lifts a hand and uses it to bruise Wooyoung’s cheek with a slap that echoes through the room.

“Got anything to say?” He asks San.

San stares down at his feet, filled with hot shame when the stranger laughs before standing onto his feet and leaving them alone again.

“Why did you anger him?” San hisses, throwing his paper cup onto the floor and lifting his bound hands to brush on Wooyoung’s cheek.

“It’s necessary,” Wooyoung smiles at him. There’s already a large mark of red that’s blooming and morphing into a deeper shade all across the side of his face, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Don’t test them like that,” San whines quietly.

Wooyoung only nuzzles him lightly on his jaw, whispering to him that it’s going to be alright.

* * *

  
  


What must be hours passes with San trying to reposition his arms and his legs so they don’t lose blood flow. Eventually, almost all of his consciousness returns back to him and Wooyoung seems to feel the same. They’re able to help one another stand on their feet, practicing walking as quietly as they can without alerting anyone. The lights stay on only for five more minutes after they’re given water, before it shuts off again and leaves them in darkness. They use the moments of light to fiddle with their ropes and get a good look out of their surroundings before being plundered back into the pitch black.

Wooyoung determines after the fourth cup of water is brought to them, that they’re bringing them a cup every hour.

“Maybe it’s a short-working drug,” he hums. “Or maybe the more of it in your system, the longer it takes to wear off.”

“Wouldn’t we have died by now if we were taking it all the time?” San leans his head on his shoulder, breathing deeply when he feels Wooyoung rest his head atop his and rubs a little into him. 

“Don’t know,” Wooyoung murmurs, “but maybe they know we’re not taking it.”

San frowns, lifting his head to say something before Wooyoung brings his hands up to cover San’s mouth.

“I have an idea,” he says quickly. “I’ve been pissing off the guy that keeps bringing us water, so maybe if we start a commotion he’ll come here quicker!”

San mutters something behind Wooyoung’s hands, which makes the other laugh.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I said—” San gasps to the new air that comes rushing in— “that I don’t know how we’d do that if there’s nothing here to start a commotion with.”

“Just scream,” Wooyoung shrugs.

“What?”

“Yeah!” Wooyoung rises to his feet, leaning down to push San off of the wall and onto the floor so he’s lying down completely. “You pretend like I’m choking you, and scream for help! They might rush in and think I’m trying to kill you, so they’ll either chase or take me into captivity, and you can run away!”

San finds himself frowning— there’s a lot of holes to Wooyoung’s plan, including the overall unreliability of counting on their captor’s actions— but he doesn’t really have a choice.

It was this, or nothing. San doesn’t want to die here.

“Okay,” he sighs. “Okay, but if anything goes wrong, you know it’s on you to fix it, right?”

Wooyoung smiles at him in the dark— but from what San can see, it’s the same blinding one he’s been giving him all this time.

  
  


Wooyoung makes a point of counting the hour down under his breath, reaching the last few minutes before he feels around in the dark for San’s throat so he can wrap his tied hands around it.

For some reason, the sensation makes San’s gut stir.

“I’m going to ask you to start screaming like you’re dying in a minute,” Wooyoung whispers. “But remember that I’m not really hurting you, and I don’t plan to, okay?”

San finds himself whimpering beneath Wooyoung’s touch.

“You’re safe in my arms,” Wooyoung murmurs. “You’re safe in my hands.”

San takes a deep breath in and out, and on Wooyoung’s signal— he starts to scream.

He screams like he’s angry with the world, and like he’s terrified of it at the same time. He screams in regret, and fear, and fury. He screams so loud his lungs want to burst and his throat feels like it’s tearing apart piece for piece. 

He thinks of his childhood— of his mother and his sister walking away, of his father’s hands around his throat instead of Wooyoung’s— and he screams louder.

He screams in real terror.

There’s a commotion, he thinks foggily. His eyes are spilling over and his lungs aren’t giving out beneath the breaths as he continues to cry, but there’s the unmistakable light of the room coming on and someone trying to tug the silhouette on top of him off.

It takes a few moments under this deep wave of helplessness for him to register Wooyoung struggling against the person holding him down.

San does something, though he’s not sure what. He feels his feet on the floor and his arms raising, but he’s not sure what they’re doing even as he hears choking and feels a body shifting beneath his weight. Someone’s on their knees in front of him, and Wooyoung’s voice is filtering in hushed whispers of instruction— but all of it falls dead and flat onto San’s fizzling senses.

He doesn’t feel a thing.

“San,” Wooyoung’s grabbing at him— at his still-moving arms that are doing something to the shape of a human body beneath him— and tugs him away. He’s tugging him down somewhere, running and running and _running_. San’s following obediently, somewhat numb and feeling rather stupid. He doesn’t know where he is, or where he’s been, or why he’s here.

Wooyoung’s hands are clutching his face, and San’s vision is trying to refocus itself when he hears sobs and feels staccato breaths hitting his skin.

“San,” Wooyoung’s calling to him. Not a beckon, but a plea. A wish.

“San?”

He doesn’t respond to it— feels out of place, out of his mind, out of his body. Nothing and nowhere is real anymore and yet surely Wooyoung is holding onto _his_ face and calling _his_ name. 

Wooyoung’s sob rips through the haze, and San’s line of sight goes crystal clear.

“Woo…” _Wooyoung, Wooyoung, Wooyoung._ His mouth can’t seem to form the rest of the name, and he stares blankly at the other boy’s tear-stricken face.

“We need to get you somewhere,” Wooyoung says hoarsely. “We can’t stay out here like this.”

He tugs San into a direction he doesn’t know, his hands still bound before him as he’s led by Wooyoung’s own. _There’s still rope on them,_ he notes. Ropes on top of his already present bandages.

They start to run wherever Wooyoung leads them. The air hits his face and he continues to fixate on the shape of his back, unintentionally chasing the feeling of Wooyoung’s bandages wrapped around his blood covered palms. He doesn’t have to think when it’s like this. And he finds he doesn’t want to. It’s just them and the sound of their shoes hitting the ground as they make their way through this dying world.

And San finds that he’s okay with running beneath the empty sky for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should go without saying but PLEASE do not accept/entertain the idea of accepting any free offers that happen like the "tour" does in this chapter. IRL-wise human traffickers and kidnappers tend to pressure you with a "take it or leave it right now" tactic that forces you to make abrupt decisions based off of vaguely made promises, and they don't give you space or the proper time to really get your head on straight. I know that the majority of people probably know that, but just in case you don't, stay safe!!
> 
> Also, don't drink if you're a kid please it's not worth it dude TT-TT

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/sanniedaize) I really love making new writer/reader friends and my DMs are wide open to complain about the teezer's at any time <3
> 
> Comments and kudos aren't necessitated, but they help me so so much in writing! :) They also really make my week. If you want to show some support, feel free to leave something behind.
> 
> Stay safe everyone!
> 
> -n.


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